


Boum! Pousser!

by alreadysomeone



Series: Boom! Boom! [5]
Category: JAG (TV 1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27155062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alreadysomeone/pseuds/alreadysomeone
Summary: It’s July, and a year has passed since Mac and Webb accidentally met up at the Washington DC “Capitol Fourth” 4th of July concert.  How has their relationship fared since “Gobble! Thrust!”?  And, where will they meet up this time?  (I think "Boum!  Pousser!" means "Boom!  Thrust!" in French)
Relationships: Sarah MacKenzie/Clayton Webb
Series: Boom! Boom! [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982134





	Boum! Pousser!

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Boom! Boom! Series:  
> Boom! Thrust!  
> Strike! Thrust!  
> Stamp! Thrust!  
> Gobble! Thrust!  
> Boum! Pousser!
> 
> Timeline: Through the beginning of Season Eight; Bud’s back at work, but I’ve paid no regard to Season Eight’s “Need to Know” or any of the Paraguay episodes.

July 13, 2003  
Paris, France  
Paris Air Show

//WEBB//

It’s the day before the public opening of the Paris Air Show, when “Industry” gets a sneak preview. While there’s nothing here that’s a surprise to the CIA, it’s a place to “see and be seen” in the world of military hardware. That’s really my task here today; to be seen; and to see who else is here. I’m also tasked with contacting a handful of pilots who’ve done some covert flights for us – test pilots who officially fly for their home nations, but freelance for the CIA on the side. 

It’s a nice break for me, since I’ve spent the last three and a half months in the Middle East, working contacts in so many different countries that I had to think for a minute every morning to determine what language I’d be trying to converse in that day. This last stop on my way home is a cakewalk compared to the ops I’ve been consulting on and the scraps of bad leads I’ve been following. 

I’m standing in the 90-degree heat, with the near 80 percent humidity, believing the cliché that it isn’t the heat, it’s the humidity; this feels so much more oppressively hot than the 110-plus temperatures of Buraydah. I’m uncomfortable, and I can feel where even my white cotton button-down shirt is clinging to my sweaty back. 

I laugh at a particularly funny image conjured up by Jose Luis Aznar, a test pilot for Spain - and us – as he conveys a story about a recent encounter with the station chief in Yemen, with whom Jose Luis was supposed to set up an op. The Yemen station chief is a real bumbling ass, and why he hasn’t been relegated to someplace like Greenland, I’ve never been able to figure out; though Yemen is no great shakes, either. While Jose Luis’ story is funny, it’s a bit disturbing that we’ve got such an incompetent heading up one of the Middle Eastern stations. 

Jose Luis has run some risky, and well-executed, flights for us, and we’ve shared many a jug of sangria over the years. No one can hold their alcohol like Spanish pilots. As he finishes his story, I hear someone call my name. 

“Clay?” I know that voice. “Oh, wait, you’re not undercover, are you?” the voice questions. 

Typical Rabb. Had I actually been undercover, he’d have blown it wide open. 

I glance at Jose Luis and roll my eyes, which starts my friend on another laughing fit. Turning, I see Rabb approaching, looking first at me, then at Jose Luis, then back again. 

“Harmon Rabb, this is Jose Luis Aznar, Spanish Air Force. And to answer your question, no, I’m not under cover.” I deliver the introductions in my driest possible tone, hoping to communicate my annoyance. 

Rabb, however, is oblivious to my hint and, predictably, his eyes fix on the wings on Jose Luis’ uniform, and the testosterone level in the air jumps up about five notches. As they start comparing flight records and aircraft they’ve flown, I can see that these guys are two of a kind. Keeter would complete their little pilot party. 

While they continue to talk, and I tune out their conversation, I wonder if Sarah’s here with Harm. He’s dressed in tan pants and a light green short sleeve button-down shirt – certainly out of uniform – but he could still be in France on JAG business. 

Since I’ve been out of the country, Sarah and I have been relying primarily on email for communication, along with the occasional phone call. The emails have been as often as I’ve been able to send them, and the phone calls about once a week. My last stop was Syria – via Kabul; not the most direct route – and I came right from the airport to the Paris airfield. I haven’t been able to get to email or a phone, so she’d have no way of knowing that I’m here and on my way home, even if she were in Paris herself. 

Since I left DC, our emails had been comfortable, often sexy, and always comforting to me. This has been the first time I’ve had someone back home – other than my boss and my mother – who’s cared about where I am, or if I’m safe. In the year since Sarah and I started our national holiday “fuck fests,” and subsequently formalized our relationship, I haven’t been happier. I’m anxious to get home to her. Not to mention, “handling” my own horniness really hasn’t been adequate. I can’t want to see Sarah and fuck her senseless, and then make love to her very, very, very slowly, all night. And all day the next day, too. Then start all over again. 

Tiring of Harm and Jose Luis comparing the size of their respective “jets,” and in a hurry to find out from Harm about Sarah, I jump into the middle of their conversation, cutting Harm off; “You here on business or pleasure, Harm?” 

“Both, actually. Mac and I got called in as consultants for a NATO summit on target confirmation, being held here in Paris this week. We wrapped up yesterday, but Mac managed to get us into the preview of the air show today.”

I’m surprised that Sarah went out of her way to get Harm into the air show; she’s usually a bit short on patience where Harm’s preoccupation with flying is concerned. And from her emails, it’s sounded like he’s been even more obsessive about flying every chance he can get, lamenting his age and the youth of the active duty pilots. 

I’m about to ask if she came with him, when I see her out of the corner of my eye. She’s wearing a white sleeveless blouse, a red knee length skirt, and some kind of black sandal things; and looking incredibly sexy. As she gets closer, we lock eyes, and I grin widely. Sexy doesn’t even begin to describe her; strong, smart, funny, and passionate get a little closer. We’re kind of ignoring Harm and Jose Luis’ puzzled expressions, as Sarah walks right up, and kisses me. It’s nothing too intimate, but is much more than a friendly peck. 

I smile at her and we hug. I can see Harm over Sarah’s shoulder; he’s trying to figure out just what the hell he’s witnessing. When I release Sarah, Jose Luis elbows me and whispers something very quickly, in Spanish, which I’m pretty sure had something to do with Sarah’s breasts and my good fortune. 

“So *he’s* who you’ve been secretly emailing every time we’ve been out of town?” Harm says, not hiding his incredulous tone, and pointing at me as if I’m not there. 

“Surprised?” 

I can’t tell if she’s asking him, or me. I’m definitely surprised to see her here. And, from Harm’s expression, he’s even more shocked to find out that Sarah and I are involved. 

“Yes! I thought you thought Webb was a weasley spook who never shared information.” 

“No, Harm. That’s what *you* think. As you may have noticed over the years, just because you have an opinion on something or someone, it doesn’t mean I feel the same way.” 

Jose Luis snickers, clearly amused at the scene playing out in front of him. Harm’s mouth is agape, and I’m having a great time watching Sarah make him squirm. 

“Clay,” Sarah begins, turning her attention to me. “Are you finished working for the day?” 

Sarah sounds very business-like now, and I’m not sure what she’s got in mind; I’m still reeling a bit at the simple fact that she’s here. “Yes,” I start cautiously, “I’m finished.” 

“Good, and now that Harm’s found you for me, my mission is complete, as well.” 

Okay, now I’m *really* confused. It sounds like she knew I was going to be here, which would explain her efforts to get into the show on the pretense of doing a favor for Harm. But I’m a bit uncomfortable about the fact that she had prior knowledge of my schedule. 

“Harm, I’ll see you back in DC,” she states matter-of-factly. 

“Huh? You’re not catching the transport tonight?” 

“Nope, I’ve got hotel reservations – for two.” 

Jose Luis, who’d lit a cigarette and backed away a few feet, snorts loudly. 

“Huh?” I ask, forgetting my Harvard education. 

“Your plans have changed Mr. Webb. I think I can show you a good time here in Paris, if you’ll just follow me. See you at work, Harm.” 

With that, Sarah walks smartly away, clearly expecting me to follow her. Far be it from me to argue with a sexy woman, inviting me to her hotel room in Paris. 

“Sarah…” I’m not displeased with the turn of events, but I would like to know how she found out I’d be here. 

“Yes?” 

Turning to face me, we stop in the shade of a large airplane wing, and fall easily into a kiss. Okay, explanations can wait. Her tongue is in my mouth, and I’m delving mine deeper to taste more of her. I’ve missed her kisses, and her taste. We crush together, our groins angling forward for more contact. My hands travel to her breasts, and I cop a feel, not caring who’s around to see us making out. My body has taken over any brain function that might’ve told me to be more discreet. 

As we kiss and caress, my cock is rising quickly in my pants, although it’s constrained by my underwear and slacks. I move one hand to her rear, and grind her against my erection; Sarah moans into my mouth as she grabs at my ass. After a minute of shameless groping, we break apart, breathing heavily. 

“We need to find a broom closet or something.” I really want her. We can get to the hotel later; I need her now. 

“Or a doorway, or a restroom, or a pool house…” she teases. 

“Come on.” I grab her hand and walk quickly towards the Platinum Badge Holders reception tent. Since the show doesn’t start until tomorrow, I’m sure we can find a room in here that’s private enough, for now. 

I nod a greeting to the concierge at the front entrance. I left my luggage with him early this morning, so he doesn’t question my presence – or the fact that I’ve now got a woman with me. You’ve got to love the French. 

Compared to the bright light of day outside, it’s difficult to see in the dark recesses of the large tent. I’m still trying to get my eyes to adjust to the light level change, when Sarah pulls me sharply to the left. I twist my head around and squint in the direction she’s leading us. There’s a heavy drape that we pull aside and step through. My eyes are almost adjusted now, so I can see the tables set up in the small room. Platinum guests get free massages, it’s one of the perks of being rich or connected, and this curtained area has about 6 massage tables set up in anticipation of tomorrow’s tired guests. 

It’s clear that no one’s around today, and, frankly, if someone came in while we were having sex, I’d probably neither notice, nor care. There’s a moving sliver of light coming from where the curtain hasn’t closed all the way and is swaying in the slight breeze. Sarah stands in its illuminating stream, and looks at me wantonly. I do want her, but, at the same time, my heart almost breaks at how lucky I feel, and how much I love her. 

Sarah leans her rear on one of the massage tables, and I go to her, meeting her body, first with my hips, then with my hands around her waist, and, finally, with my mouth on hers. I press hard against her, and pull her blouse up to get to her breasts, not wanting to spend time on the buttons. Sarah’s plunging her tongue into my mouth, and moaning as she forcefully strokes my tongue with hers. 

Her hands are in my hair, holding onto me, and when I get frustrated with her bra, she undoes enough buttons to get her shirt over her head, and unhooks her bra, so I can feel and taste her breasts. Grabbing her hips, I help her hop up onto the table. She’s a little higher now, and I lower my head to her nipples. First one nipple in my mouth, then the other, I suck and bite, and relish the taste of her. 

“Clay…” comes her gasping breath, and my cock hardens. I turn the lower half of my body so I can rub myself against her inner thigh. I’m throbbing with desire for her, and, from the way she’s got her ankles now locked around my waist, struggling to grind her mound against my hip, I think she’s ready for me, too. 

“God, I’ve missed this. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this *with* you.” I’m babbling, but I don’t care. I can show her how I’m feeling, even if I can’t get the words right. 

“Me, too. Get up here.” 

I back off, and, while I unbuckle my pants and get them off, Sarah shimmies her underwear off, but leaves her skirt on, which she hikes up. Sitting back down, she props one foot up on the table, and spreads her legs, waiting for me. 

“Oh, yeah,” I groan. 

I shove my pants and boxers down, and go to her, holding onto my cock to rub it against her folds, hitting her clit, and concentrating the pressure there. Sarah closes her eyes, and I insert a finger into her. Pivoting her hips forward, she angles herself closer to me. I thrust two fingers into her now, and she’s absolutely dripping. I’m still holding onto myself, rubbing her clit with my erection, and I’m tempted to just let go and come right now as I coax her to climax this way, but I want to be inside her, surrounded by her walls. 

Concentrating on her pleasure for the moment, I release the hold I’d had on myself and circle her clit in earnest with my thumb, while thrusting with my fingers in and out of her core, hard and fast. Sarah was moaning until a moment ago, but now she’s gasping for air as her orgasm takes over. I lean my head to her shoulder to encourage her to lean into me, as her body rides out the pleasure. 

Afterwards, we’re silent for a time, my hands moving softly over her sex. I jump at the unexpected feel of Sarah’s hands on my cock. She begins to stroke me, as she whispers, “That was great, but now I want to fuck you.” 

“Oh, yeah,” I say, yet again, as I buck into her hand. I really should at least try to be more eloquent. But sex with Sarah is very distracting. 

My cock is getting impossibly hard under her touch. She’s being a bit rough, and her take-charge attitude is really sexy. She shoves her chest out even farther when I palm her breasts and begin to nip and pinch her nipples. Her hips are moving rhythmically again, and she’s holding my cock so close to her core that I can feel the humid heat emanating from her. 

I can’t wait another second, so I grab her hand away from my erection and bury myself inside her with one hard stroke. Lacing our fingers together, we groan in pleasure, and at how we’ve missed each other’s bodies. I take a moment to revel in her, before I begin to move – her tight walls, her wet core, the smell of her sex, the feel of her body against mine. 

Then, I move. Very slowly, at first. She kisses me with purposefully slow motions, and it’s like an erotic movie playing out. Our tongues slide and dance over one another, reaching and tasting. My hips thrust backwards and forwards, pulling my cock out of her almost all the way, only to return home again, as I lap at her tongue in my mouth. 

It’s more than we can both stand for any longer than thirty seconds. With a hard grunt, I slam into her hard, before doing it again and again, faster and faster, as I steady my balance with a hold on her hips. 

Sarah’s leaning back on the heels of her hands now, tipping her pelvis as far forward as she can, and hanging on as I bang into her. I can hear a pant of pleasure from her every time I hit home, and soon she’s throwing her head back, strands of hair clinging to her sweaty forehead. 

“Yes,” she says, and her walls are gripping me like a pulsating vice. 

I grab onto her hips hard, and thrust even faster and harder until I feel myself go over the edge, and the sweet release washes over me. 

Our chests are both heaving hard in a struggle for air, after all the panting we just did. My falling erection slides from her, and Sarah lets her legs dangle from the table. We put our foreheads together, and I watch her beautiful face as she closes her eyes and evens out her breathing. 

Once we’re steady on our feet again, I ask her where she’s taking me, telling her that I feel like a “kept” man. 

”Is that a bad thing?” 

“Depends where you’re going to keep me.” I raise my eyebrows, challenging her. 

“The Ritz,” she says with overt simplicity. 

“Hmmm, nice. Okay, you can keep me.” 

Sarah smacks my ass as we leave the massage area, and head back to the entrance of the tent. I jump in playful surprise. While collecting my luggage from the concierge, I swear he gives me a knowing look, after he checks Sarah out. I might ordinarily care that he’s checking out my woman, and clearly knows that we’ve just fucked in his Platinum Badge tent, but today, I couldn’t give a shit – let the bastard be jealous. I’m one lucky guy. 

Sarah leads me to her rental car – a Peugeot convertible; top down, of course. Very nice; very French. 

On the way into town, we talk comfortably, and I fill her in on my travels – at least, as much as I can. Every time I have to say, “Well, that part’s classified,” she just waves at me to continue with the parts I’m able to share. 

Then it’s her turn. She covers a lot of stuff we’ve talked about in emails… Tiner going to law school, Bud training for a triathlon, Harm being an ass. I like hearing her thoughts on what’s going on in her life and at work. As I rest my hand on her thigh, I comment that it’s kind of funny to see *and* hear her, after so long apart. 

“Well, you could close your eyes.” There’s a sexy suggestiveness to her voice that I like. 

“Hmmm, not a bad idea,” I say, hoping to sound sexy, too, and as if I’m issuing a challenge. 

She rubs her hand up my leg, pausing for just a second to shift gears, and make a sharp turn into fast-moving traffic. I think closing my eyes is probably a good idea. 

“I missed you, Clay. I was lonely without you.” 

She’s putting on a pouty voice, and I smile, shifting lower in my seat, hoping to give her better access to my upper leg, and everything else. 

Sarah’s fingers move up my leg, her nails scratching over my slacks. The cool breeze on my face, the satisfied feeling of recent release, and her touch, are all adding up to an odd feeling of contentment, edged with need. Blood is again flooding to my cock, and I can feel myself slowly hardening, as Sarah continues, “I’d re-read your emails over and over, for every scrap of sexy prose. You’d hint at touching yourself and thinking of me, but you never came out and said it. Did you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Me, too. I’d close my office door some afternoons, and imagine you touching me, as I’d finger myself. My skirt hiked up, my panty hose stretched down…” 

I have no idea if she really did that at JAG, but if she didn’t – and I plan to find out for sure, later – I vow to call her on the phone at the office one day, and talk her through it, for real. But I’d better make sure I’m somewhere private, because I want to be jerking off at the same time. It’s a great fantasy for now, though; but Sarah’s next statement snaps me back to the present. 

“I’d picture your hard cock, plunging into me, while I pleasured myself, having to be very careful, of course, not to make noise.” 

“Sarah…” 

Her hand is now on my swollen erection, and I’m jerking myself against her palm. I’m sure I’m not going to be able to get off this way, but, damn, it feels good. I’m tempted to pull my cock out of my pants, so she can touch my skin and give me a proper hand job, but we’re in a convertible, and in a lot of traffic. 

The woman must be a mind reader, because no sooner have I envisioned her being able to touch me without the hindrance of my pants, than I feel her shifting around. I open one eye, and roll my head on the headrest, to see her reaching into the back for what I soon see is a blanket.   
Tossing it over my lap, she scolds, “Uh-uh, no peeking. But since I think you get the drift of what I’ve got in mind, undo your pants.” 

I smile, eyes dutifully closed, and do as I’m told; I’m sure I’ve never had a better time in Paris.   
Once I’m adjusted, with my fly open and my underwear shoved down far enough so that my cock is free, and my balls are relatively unencumbered, Sarah reaches for me again. 

“Now then, where were we?” 

“You were touching yourself in your office, thinking of me.” 

“Ah, yes. Good of you to remember.” Sarah’s sarcastic playfulness makes me smile. “I was just about to tell you how I’d also put my hand in my uniform blouse to get to my nipples – I’d pinch them hard, and it would make me remember how you licked the scalding hot caramel sauce off me in New York. And once I thought about that, I remembered how, on President’s Day, I snuck into your office, and I gave you a blowjob while you talked to the DCI on the phone, and you almost gave us away when I nibbled on your balls.” 

That was a phenomenal blowjob; and almost a phenomenally embarrassing end to my career.   
Sarah’s fisting my cock hard and fast now, and I’m bucking into her hand; so close. Covering her hand with mine, she lets me set the pace and we gradually shift, so that I’m jerking off, and she’s caressing my balls, raking her nails lightly over them, and still talking to me while she navigates the horrendous Paris traffic. 

“You remember how you made me come on the phone, when you were in Oman? All you had to do was tell me how much you wanted me, and how you’d shove yourself into me over and over again when we saw each other next. I was wet, and on the edge so fast, all it took was a couple of rubs on my clit while you talked about licking me there, and I was a goner.” 

All the times I’ve gone down on Sarah flash through my mind; I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, and try to concentrate on just one of those times. Instead, I end up picturing a favorite fantasy of mine. She’s on top of her desk at work, files piled up high around her, and I’m on my knees tasting her, hearing her moan my name. 

“Ahargggg,” I say, as I come in my hand, and on the blanket. 

Sarah untangles her hand from my pants and the blanket, and concentrates again on driving, while I clean myself up. 

“I think I owe you one.” 

“You better believe it, Clay.” Sarah chuckles , and when I open my eyes, and look around to get my bearings, I’m pretty sure we’ve been going in circles around the Arc de Triomphe for the last several minutes. 

Sarah deftly maneuvers us to the outer lane of the traffic circle, and veers off down one of the streets. Not long after, we pull up in front of the Ritz. 

“Damn, Sarah. You went all out.” 

“I thought it might be nice to treat ourselves. Especially since I suspect the places you’ve been bunking haven’t exactly rated five stars.” 

“Actually, I did spend five nights in Dubai at the Burj al Arab. Gold leaf décor in every room.” I say smugly, gently mocking her. 

“Oh. You neglected to tell me about *that* little detour on your trip.” Sarah’s flat voice displays her disappointment. 

“It was five dull days of sitting in meetings; really long, boring meetings. It’s not like I was there with you – or anyone else, for that matter.” I know I’m coming off far more defensively than I should, but I can’t help it. It’s not like I *wanted* to be there. But she’s making me feel like I’ve done something on purpose to ruin her plans. 

“Yeah, well…” 

Sarah lets her sentence trail off, and there’s a weird tension between us as the attendants unload our luggage, Sarah hands the keys over, and we walk inside to check in. At the reception desk, I hang back and let her handle things, since she made the arrangements; and, at the moment, I think it might be best to stay out of her hair. 

Our room is on a top floor, and, of course, is gorgeous. The view’s great, and the furnishings luxurious. Sarah stands on the balcony looking to the street below, and I approach her from behind, my hands coming to rest on the railing, on either side of her. 

“Nice view,” I start. 

“Yeah, you can see the Jardin des Tuileries.” 

“I meant you, actually.” I’ve seen Paris from many a top floor hotel room, but Sarah taking in the view is far more beautiful than the city or the gardens. “Are you disappointed I haven’t been sleeping on the floor of mud huts for the past three months?” 

“No. Well, maybe a little. I wanted to surprise you with something special.” 

“I was surprised, all right. Very. How’d you know I was going to be at the air show, anyway?” 

“Classified.” She turns around in the circle of my arms, a smug look on her face, and she leans back to rest her elbows on the railing of the balcony. 

“Come on, Sarah. How’d you know my schedule?” I’m getting annoyed now. It’s kind of pissing me off that she could track me down so easily. 

“Why, you afraid I’d catch you with another woman?” 

I snort, and withdraw my arms to cross them; I’m not even justifying that question with any kind of an answer. She should know me better. I would *never* cheat on her, or anyone I was involved with. 

“Okay, okay. Your assistant told me,” she relents, obviously figuring out that I’m not going to say anything. 

“What!?” I didn’t really intend to yell, but I’m kind of angry with Stacy for sharing my whereabouts. 

“You’re the one who told her it was okay give me your schedule, unless it was classified or ‘need to know.’” Sarah punctuates her retort by shoving herself off the balcony, and forcing me to get out of her way as she passes me to storm into the room. 

She’s got the facts on her side, and we both know it. But by now, my pride’s been hurt, and my emotions are a bit out of control. Damn it, I’m one of the most in control people I know. 

“You should have told me you were coming,” I say to her retreating back, as I follow her into the room. 

“That was the whole point – *not* to tell you. That’s why they call it a surprise.” Sarah whips around; she’s really yelling now, and, if any of our neighbors have their balcony doors open, they’re getting an earful. But I don’t care. My blood is boiling with frustration and anger. 

“Well, I wish you hadn’t surprised me. I was doing just fine here on my own.” 

“Clearly. And in that case, why don’t you walk yourself straight out of here, so I can enjoy this room I’m paying for.” 

“Oh, don’t play the money card, Sarah. I appreciate that you don’t have the kind of funds I do, but I didn’t ask you to come here and drop a lot of cash for a fancy hotel room, when all I really want to do is go home!” 

“Fuck you, Clay. Get out.” 

I can tell from her face, and the way she’s turned her back on me, that she’s serious. There’s no use continuing this argument, so I walk out the door without any of my luggage, which hasn’t even shown up from the bellhop yet, and storm down the stairs, not wanting to wait for the elevator. 

I make my way to the river, and walk for at least a mile before my brain clears enough to even attempt to sort out what the hell just happened. Shit, I have no idea *what* happened. 

I’m still angry, but I’m not sure why, exactly. She’s the one who showed up out of nowhere. What was she thinking? She was clearly disappointed that I wasn’t ecstatic to see her, and about the arrangements she’d made. What did she expect? I haven’t been home in months, why would I want to stay in Paris any longer than I have to? And what was that accusation about catching me with another woman? 

I walk for another couple of miles, stopping at a café for a coffee and a pastry, where I sit outside, and spend the rest of the afternoon watching the other patrons come and go, and the hustle and bustle of the street in front of me. 

I swirl the last of my “café Americain” around in my cup and try again to sort out my feelings. Having someone who misses me when I’m not home, and who’ll do things like come to see me wherever I am in the world is what I want, isn’t it? Yes. And I want that person to be Sarah. 

I realize that it’s probably a symptom of being alone all these years, and never emotionally committing myself to anyone that’s made it all the more difficult to partner my life with Sarah’s now. Part of me felt invaded when she turned up, obviously knowing I’d be in Paris. It’s true; I did tell Stacy to let Sarah know my schedule if at all possible, if she ever called to ask. And it’d come in handy when we were both in town – Sarah would call Stacy to find out if I’d be able to meet her after work, or if I was late for a date. But after almost four months on the road, maybe I’m out of the habit of having Sarah know my plans. Not to mention after twenty-plus adult years of being on my own, maybe it’s just impossible to make the emotional adjustment to having someone know where you are at all times, no matter how far you are from home. 

But damn it, Sarah’s no better off in the emotional baggage department than I am. Look at her childhood, and her relationship track record. Her husband, Dalton, Mic; hell, even Harm’s probably had an effect on her ability to have a trouble-free relationship. It’s a fine line when you’re our age. You come with some valuable experience, because you’re old enough to have had significant relationships, but you also come a bit scarred from your personal past; and, like everyone, at any age, you harbor those naturally human feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. I’ve always hated the idea that Sarah probably didn’t marry Mic because Harm ejected into the Atlantic Ocean. 

I want to have that kind of impact on her life. And I want to beat up Mic for emotionally manhandling her into a relationship, and moving here without telling her. I want to kick Harm’s ass for rejecting her, and belittling her investigational and legal skills. It’s terribly juvenile, but I think men are hard-wired that way, to physically fight for our women. We’re naturally competitive, and, with two successful Naval lawyers, and a CIA Deputy Director, you’re operating with some big egos. Throw a woman into that mix, and forget about any maturity. I picture Harm, Mic, and myself getting into a brawl. It’s not a pretty picture; I think Harm and I would come out pretty pulverized. Mic was a powerful guy and a former boxer. 

The last thing I want is for our baggage to hold me and Sarah back from sharing our lives, or from having a life together. She’s the one who made this huge gesture in coming here. Damn it, I hate that I’m acting like the typical commitment-phobic man. In my life, I’ve always wanted to avoid being “typical.” 

//MAC// 

After a nap, well, a lie-down – I couldn’t sleep, I decide to take a long shower. I think best in the shower. Here’s what I keep thinking though: “damn him” and, “screw you, Webb.” 

By the time I get out, dry off a bit, throw on clean clothes, and grab a mineral water out of the mini-bar, I’ve calmed down some. I snort, thinking what Clay would have to say about me spending more money on the over-priced mini-bar water. 

It’s not about the money. Nor is it about him having spent a week at one of the most expensive hotels in the world, sort of ruining what I thought would be the first comfortable night’s sleep he’d have had in ages. But how about the fact that I went out of my way to do something nice, something special? And screw Clayton Webb for having money! He’s got some issues over that little fact of his life. He tries to make it seem like the rest of us resent him for it, but he’s the one with the hang up. 

He’d better realize what an ass he was, because I’m sure as hell not taking the fall for this argument. No way am I apologizing. I’m not even sure what his problem was, or why we started fighting in the first place. I hate this. Things get out of hand faster than you can figure out what’s happening. Then hurt feelings and resentments build up, and pretty soon you’re fighting about stupid small things, when you don’t even know what the core issue is in the first place. That’s what happened with Mic; there were fundamental things wrong with our relationship that we tried to ignore, so we fought about stupid, inconsequential things instead. 

Relationships are complicated that way; it’s probably why I haven’t had too many. It’s so hard to maintain any kind of objectivity. I think that’s why I like the law, and the military. Sure, there are shades of gray, but you’ve always got a solid reference point to start with, which, with my decadently not-so-solid upbringing, I appreciate all the more. 

I want this to work with Clay. It would absolutely shatter my heart if we let things like this get away from us without addressing them. I sigh, and let my body flop onto the bed, where I stare at the ceiling. I guess I was a little bitchy that he wasn’t jumping up and down over this surprise get-away thing. But, if he’d planned something, he’d have been disappointed, too, if he didn’t get the reaction he was hoping for. 

I must have dozed off, because when I wake up, my neck is stiff from sleeping without a pillow, and it’s almost all the way dark. I hear a soft knock on the door, and hurry to answer it. 

Looking through the peephole, I see it’s Clay. I can’t read the expression on his face through the distortion of the peephole. I swing the door open, and he says, “Can I come in?” 

There’s a thick, nasty tension in the air between us, and I have a hunch we’re not quite ready to apologize, or make up. But I can’t expect him to sleep on a bench in the park, so I guess, until we both cool off some more, and are ready to swallow some pride, we’re stuck here with each other. 

As Clay walks in, I tell him I’m going to find some food. With a curt, “Okay,” from him, I’m on my own for dinner. I end up grabbing a bite at a café just a block away, and calling it a night. 

When I return, we judiciously avoid one another, and get ready for bed. I watch TV until 2 am, and finally fall asleep during a German sitcom that’s dubbed into French. In the morning, Clay’s in the shower when I wake up. I lie in bed, staring up at the ornate gold trim around the ceiling. My mind zones out, and I sigh, wondering what the day will be like, if we’ll be able to get things straightened out before tonight. It’s Bastille Day, and my surprise plan had included an encounter similar to our first, on last year’s Fourth of July. 

Clay comes out of the bathroom, with a towel around his waist. His chest still has water drops on it, but his hair is combed neatly into place. I quickly look away, to avoid getting caught staring at the way the droplets accent the contours of his chest muscles. I’m not quite ready to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was ogling him. Instead, I get up and go into the bathroom, without saying a word. 

I feel like I hardly slept last night. Fitful bouts of slumber were punctuated by long stretches of lying awake, trying to figure out if Clay was awake, and wondering if our fight was eating away at him, the way it was at me. 

I breathe in the steamy air of the bathroom as I get ready to step back into the room. With one of the hotel robes on, I open the door and glance around, halfway expecting Clay to be gone. But he’s not. He’s sitting in the chair at the desk, and talking on the phone. He’s got the chair angled towards the bed, and, dressed only in a pair of light blue cotton boxers, his bare feet are up on the bed. In the second before he looks up at me, I take in his presence, thinking he looks very comfortable and natural, but almost vulnerable in his state of undress. 

As soon as he glances my way, I busy myself with finding clothes to wear. He’s been silent on the phone so far, and I’m beginning to wonder if he’s on hold, or if he’s really on the phone at all. My answer comes as I sift through my underwear. 

“Mother, I’m fine. I’ll be home in a few days. I think.” 

That last remark was a dig at me. I hadn’t had a chance to tell him when I’d scheduled our flight home. Without looking up, I say, “Day after tomorrow, in the morning.” 

Clay repeats my words to his mother, and they continue talking about horses, and other family news. 

I can tell he’s watching me while I dress; and I like it. It’s the first overture either of us has made. Whether or not we’ll act on it, or acknowledge it, is another matter. 

I catch his attention, on purpose, I’ll admit, when I turn slightly to give him a profile of my bare breasts before putting my bra on. I’m not quite ready for make up sex. Well, my body might be – I honestly really want him – but we need to talk first. 

He hangs up the phone and sits there, not moving one bit, except to lean his chair back in a cocky fashion. I finish dressing, throwing on a knee-length denim skirt with a sexy slit up the front, and a gauzy peasant-style top. Turning to face his observations, I put my hands on my hips. 

“Like what you see?” 

“Yes. But, I’m not sure I’m allowed to anymore.” 

“Clay,” I start, dropping my hands, and sitting on the edge of the bed. 

He lets the front legs of his chair fall to the floor with a ‘thud.’ 

“What’s on the schedule for today?” Clay changes the subject, and I wonder if he’s not ready to talk, or if he thinks we’ll start fighting again if we try. That’s okay; at least we’re making some progress. 

“Just sightseeing, I guess. Actually, I’d anticipated us spending most of the day here.” 

I really had thought we’d be in bed most of the day, reacquainting ourselves with each other’s bodies, and just catching up. I glance at Clay to gauge his reaction to my admission. 

He’s smiling a small, tentative smile, and it’s really adorable. I return the gentle grin, and raise my eyebrows, acknowledging his knowing look. 

“How about we get some food and see some of Paris?” 

“Sounds good. You should probably get dressed,” I try a gentle tease. 

“Yeah.” 

I flip through the BBC and CNN news stations on TV while Clay dresses, and sneak looks at him, the way he was at me earlier. I’m positive he took an extra long time pulling his pants up, backside towards me, and I definitely appreciated the gesture. That man has a fine ass. 

Assuming we can manage to talk about what happened yesterday in a civilized manner, and that he apologizes sufficiently, this fight could actually be kind of fun. Well, the making up part,   
that is. 

Maneuvering around each other in order to get our things together before leaving the room, I can feel the first stirrings of some sexual tension between us. With a light touch on my hip to move me to the side, Clay leans around to grab his watch off the bedside table, and I feel a *zing*. I pay him back by tucking in the tag at the collar of his shirt, making sure to brush my fingers on his neck. But everything still feels very tentative and delicate right now, so that, even if we were at the boiling point, I don’t think we’d give in to our physical desires. Though, for now, I’m content to just ride what, I hope, is a building wave of sexuality as we make our way through the day. 

We grab breakfast at the buffet in the hotel and as we eat, I tell Clay I’ve never really been to Paris before, and that I’m hoping he can show me around. Leave it to a male ego: his face lights up like a Christmas tree. I think this will help him feel a bit more in control of our little mini-holiday here. 

The weather isn’t as hot as it was yesterday, which is a relief, since we’re doing a lot of walking. We start out doing the obligatory Eiffel Tour excursion, which turns out to be crowded, but worth it, just to cross it off my “must do” list of tourist attractions. And we got there just in time; they’re limiting the number of visitors today, cutting off the line just after us. The girl at the ticket counter tells us they’re shutting down early to set up some pyrotechnics for tonight’s fireworks display. 

Once up in the Tower, Clay and I take turns looking through the telescopes, and consulting my tourist guide to identify landmarks. Our conversation is sparse, but not too awkward. We’re being “gentle” with one another. 

After the Tower, Clay takes the book from my hands, looks at the map, gives me a sly smile, and takes my hand to lead me down the street. I don’t look at his face, but at our hands joined together, completely amazed at how in such a short time, I’ve missed his touch. It was probably a good thing we had a couple rounds of sexual activity yesterday, or I might have jumped him right here on the Parisian streets, just from feeling his hand on mine. 

I finally look up, and realize I’ve been busted. Clay smiles, and squeezes my hand, “You okay?” 

“Yeah.” I hold onto his hand tighter, and watch as a spring in his step carries Clay down the street. 

Men are so easy to flatter. But I realize I’m no different when he begins rubbing his thumb on my hand as we walk with our fingers interlaced. It makes me feel like the sexiest woman in the world. 

I’m curious about our destination, though, so I inquire, only to receive a “classified” reply. 

Clay looks like he regrets his answer as soon as it’s out of his mouth. That was the word that started our fight yesterday. But I roll my eyes good naturedly, encouraging his playful gesture, and he smiles. 

It turns out that Clay, the old romantic, is leading me to the Égouts de Paris, a museum devoted to sewage. I can’t help but laugh, “You sure know how to show a girl a good time.” 

“I thought it would be a bit more interesting than some of the usual touristy places.” 

The museum is actually really interesting, and it provides a good opening for us to joke around, cracking crass jokes at every opportunity. It feels like the ice is breaking in earnest between us.   
When we emerge, it’s way past lunchtime, and I’m starving. We find a creperie, and feast hungrily. I use my poor French to order, and Clay is appropriately impressed, even if the waiter was decidedly not. Back outside, we find an ice cream stand and walk aimlessly. I take a lick of my cone, and decide it’s time to clear the air. We could probably let this fade into the past, but I don’t want there to be any new baggage between us added to the stuff we showed up with. Plus, I still think he owes me an apology. I swallow my pride, and take the plunge, “Hey, I’m sorry if my surprise wasn’t what you wanted.” 

Clay’s silent for a long time, and, as we walk in silence, my stomach ties itself into knots, making my ice cream very unappealing, although I keep licking and eating it to avoid having the whole thing melt all over my hand. 

At long last, I see Clay’s shoulders heave up as he takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too. I probably over-reacted. It was really nice of you. I’ve never had anyone keep tabs on me the way you do. Well, except my mother.” 

“It’s not like I was stalking you. Okay, maybe I was, a little. But I thought we were at a point in our relationship where that was okay.” 

“We were. We are. You are. I am, too. Or, I want to be. I thought I was.” Clay pauses, concentrating hard on his ice cream; I think this is really hard for him. “I didn’t *want* to be resentful; I was just feeling that way before I knew what was happening. And then I was acting like some kind of commitment-phobic jerk. Oh, Jesus; I’m just like Rabb.” 

I laugh while Clay looks quickly at me, to see if I’m laughing at him, or with him. It’s a little of both, I guess. “Believe me, you’re nothing like Harm. He’d never have the insight to even realize he’s got a deathly fear of commitment; this would somehow all be my fault, instead of just partly. I should’ve given you a warning that I’d changed your travel plans. Hinted that I’d turn up here.” 

I finish up my ice cream cone, wipe my mouth and hands with the napkin, and look for a trash can to ditch it in. 

“I’m really sorry, Sarah. It was fantastic to see you at the air show. It was fantastic *doing* you at the air show.” 

Clay points to a garbage can, I take his napkin, too, and dispose of our trash. When I turn around, I take one of his hands in mine and face him. I need to see his face for this question. “Should we slow things down?” 

I need to know how he really feels, other than sorry that he acted like a jerk. Clay touches my face lightly with the back of his fingers, grazing my cheek sweetly. His expression is serious, but open. He’s hiding nothing, and I’m so relieved. 

“No.” A look of worry quickly appears on his features, “I mean, unless you want to. I don’t want to. I’m just an old bachelor, set in my ways, I guess; you’re going to have to help train me – whip me into shape, so to speak.” 

There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and he’s trying hard not to smile. The knot in my stomach undoes itself completely; I know we’re going to be okay. I’m actually really impressed with his ability to examine his own emotional reactions and find their roots. 

“I don’t want to slow down, either. But do you think you can be ‘broken?’” Back into our familiar banter pattern, I lean in close, and deliver my query into his ear, in a husky voice. 

A hearty laugh erupts from Clay, “With you doing the breaking? You bet.” 

I look into his eyes just before we kiss. His tongue darts out to trace my lips, before retreating to do it again. I’m forced to grab his head, to hold his lips to mine as I thrust my tongue out to duel his. Our bodies arc together, and we press into one another in spite of the humidity of the day. I feel wetness pooling between my legs immediately, and Clay’s erection is pressing insistently into my lower stomach. We’re miles from the hotel, and it’s broad daylight with no place in sight to sneak a quickie. 

We must have the same thought at the same time, because we back away, breaking body contact, and looking around. I laugh, and Clay joins in. 

“Okay, boss. What’s the plan for our time in the City of Lights?” he asks, giving the reins back to me, so to speak. 

“Other than fucking your brains out at the earliest opportunity that won’t get the gendarmes called in…” Clay cuts me off, stepping to me quickly, grabbing my hips and kissing me hard. 

“God, I want you,” he breathes against my lips. 

My core melts with wet heat at the sound of his ragged confession. I rub against his erection, and kiss him with a nip to his lips at the end. 

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait.” 

“Damn.” 

We begin to walk again to avoid having sex right here and now, and I fill Clay in on our travel plans, outlining my desire to find a place we can watch the Bastille Day fireworks, and relaying our flight information. Clay suggests we take the tour of the catacombs, and then grab a taxi back to the hotel for a shower and dinner, before heading out for the evening. I’m surprised he doesn’t want to go right back to the hotel now, but the catacombs with the bones of long-dead Parisian residents genuinely sounds interesting, so I agree. 

In the late 18th century, Paris had a problem with overcrowding in its cemeteries, so they exhumed the bones and relocated them in the tunnels. The corridors are supposedly stacked with bones. While we wait in the short line to get our tickets, Clay points to a sign that indicates that people over 60 get in free, and we laugh at the irony. 

Descending the cast iron spiral staircase down, I feel, with each step, the air mercifully cooling off. Once we’re at the bottom, it practically feels air-conditioned. Our guide proceeds to give our group information about the catacombs first in French, then Italian, German, Spanish, and finally, English. Each time, when he gets to the English portion, I’ve already gotten the gist of it, so I sort of stop paying attention after the German. 

The bones and skulls are a bit creepy. Though, the thought that these were actual living people from the 1700’s, and before, is pretty amazing. The United States is so young, you really get a better sense of time and history in Europe. My imagination is further captured by the fact that the catacombs were used as a headquarters for the French Resistance during World War Two. There’s something about that time period, and the idea of working underground for the “good cause,” that’s really romantic and exciting. I can see Clay joining the Resistance and being a spy, sneaking behind enemy lines to do his spy thing. 

While my mind’s been wandering, the group has moved forward, but Clay’s lagging a little behind. I think he’s testing his Italian, because when the tour guide imparts the next bit of information in Italian, Clay’s mouthing some of the words right after the guide utters them, as if he’s refining his pronunciation. It’s really cute. I walk up behind him, and grab his ass. Clay jerks a little in surprise, turns his head and says quietly, “Now, that’s the kind of surprise I like.” 

“That’s the kind of ass I like.” I keep squeezing his strong muscles there, and press my chest into his back. On my tiptoes, I can reach the back of his neck, where I drop a few light kisses. 

“Are all the bones in this place turning you on?” 

“The only bone I’m interested in is yours.” Nothing like a crass joke to romance your lover. 

Craning his head around, Clay kisses me on the mouth, and we make out sloppily, acting like really obnoxious American tourists. But we’re still at the back of the group, and the guide is ignoring us; I’m sure it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. In fact, I’m sure he’s seen a lot worse. Which gives me an idea. 

When the tour proceeds deeper into the catacombs, I hold Clay back. He raises his eyebrows in question, but clues in fast, looking around to be sure we haven’t been spotted as “missing.” I tug him towards a doorway I’d seen a dozen yards back the way we’d come. There’s no actual door in the frame, but we duck into the small room the entryway reveals. The little “L” shaped alcove is empty, and we can hide around the corner from the sight-line of anyone passing by. 

Once we’re out of sight, we crash together, hard, up against the wall. I’m leaning on Clay and pushing against his body with mine, and our lips are fused in a bruising kiss. Clay’s got one hand on my breast, pinching my nipple hard, and his other hand is busy, snaking down to hike up my skirt. To catch our breaths, we have to pause our frantic kissing, but it gives us a chance to concentrate our attention elsewhere. I find his cock, stiff and ready, and rub him hard through his pants for just a moment before getting to work on his belt buckle. In less than twenty seconds, I’ve got his pants down as far as they need to be, and he’s got my skirt all the way up around my hips. 

I disengage from Clay long enough to get my underwear off, and when I stand back up, I hand my panties to him. Clay shoves the small bit of material into a pants pocket, and we’re ready. Our penchant for having sex in public places has rendered us fairly adept at stripping fast, and only as much as necessary to do the deed. 

“There’d better not be any cameras in here,” he says. 

“We’ve been lucky so far.” 

Clay leans against the wall, kind of low, while he grabs my right leg and hooks it around his waist, while I stand on my toes and get into position. 

“Yes, we have. *I’m* really lucky.” His voice is soft, and I’m kind of touched by his declaration. It’s so sweet, amidst our dirty little adventure. 

Smiling, I kiss him, sweeping my tongue over the roof of his mouth and over his tongue, backing off just as he gets into the kiss. 

“In a teasing mood, eh?” 

“Maybe,” I smile, knowing full well he’ll get the better of me in the end; or vice versa. 

And, with that, he begins to thrust into me, putting just the head of his swollen cock into my wet and ready entrance. Then he withdraws. “Two can play at that game.” 

He repeats the tease twice more, but on the third attempt, I clench his hips with the leg that’s around his waist, and hold him to me, and he relents. 

Thrusting up and into me with one final motion, we stifle loud gasps of pleasure, lest the noises echo too far down the catacombs. With a kiss, Clay silences me and then softly kisses my lips, chin, and neck in a slow pattern, which matches the steady thrusting of our hips. We pump together, and it feels so good to be filled by him. We’re both moaning softly, the sounds of our lovemaking audible only to each other. 

We’ve had all kinds of sexual experiences over the last year, but, ironically, this has got to be one of the most sensual. I’m hardly aware of my surroundings, my senses are fully concentrating on how Clay feels inside me, and what his kisses and touches are doing to me. 

His hand at my breast again, Clay twirls my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, causing me to arch, encouraging his ministrations. He pinches harder, then moves his hand between us, where with a similar manipulation he attends to my clit. I clench my interior muscles around him, and feel my orgasm swiftly approaching. He knows I’m close, and leans to kiss me, to quiet my release. 

I gasp for breath as his lips devour mine when I come, and then I feel his hands on my rear, pulling me harder to him, so he can reach his own release. I rake my fingers through his hair, bending his head back to lean on the wall, which allows me access to his neck, which I suck and nip. Clay throws his head forward into the crook of my neck, and he bites down hard as he comes. I’m probably going to have a mark there, but it’s better than being busted doing the nasty in the catacombs of Paris. 

“Damn, Sarah. I missed you so much. Thanks for finding me in Paris.” 

I smile and look into his eyes, which look almost black in the dark room. We hold our gazes, and the moment’s intensity is almost overwhelming. A drip of moisture splashing down somewhere in the catacombs brings us back to the reality of our location, and we expertly clean ourselves up, tidying clothes, and tucking ourselves back in, as needed. 

I peek out into the main corridor, and see our guide leading our group back this way. 

“Perfect timing. Follow me.” 

Clay stands behind me, his hands resting lightly on my hips, as he peers over my shoulder. We watch the group go past, and hop out into the pathway just behind the last person in the entourage dutifully following the guide. We try to look calm and interested, but we’re both sweating a little, despite the cool temperature, and I know my cheeks are flushed. 

I look to Clay’s damp forehead, and notice that he’s breathing hard still, and looks a little lightheaded. 

“Maybe we should try a bed next time; I think we’re out of shape for this.” I note the muscle fatigue in the leg I was standing on, and know I’ll be sore tomorrow. 

“We just need lots more practice.” 

The end of the tour is uneventful, and when we re-emerge into the daylight, it feels like an oven. Like a huge, damp oven. Quickly finding a cab, we high-tail it back to the hotel and shower in the blissfully cool room. 

We lie on the bed, naked, and holding one another. Clay’s behind me, his arm around my torso, holding one breast, his nose buried in the crook of my neck. In no time, we’re sleeping soundly.   
Three hours later, I wake up, drooling on my pillow, and starving. I squeeze Clay’s hand – the one that’s resting on my breast – and he squeezes my breast in reply. 

“Time to get up?” he queries, flexing his hips into my backside, showing off his erection. 

“Apparently you’re already up.” 

“I’d make love to you, but I’m starving. I assume you are, too, from the way your stomach’s been growling for the past twenty minutes.” 

“Yeah. Let’s find some food.” 

“Did you bring nice clothes? I want to take you out.” 

“Yep. And my plan was to take *you* out. But, see? I can compromise; I’m flexible.” 

We dress, but Clay won’t tell me where he’s taking me. I have him help me with my necklace, and it feels really comfortable having him assist me this way. Like we’re some married couple, doing those small, sweet things for each other that married people do. I smile at myself in the mirror at the thought, and adjust my dress. The dress is made of a stretchy material, with small diagonal stripes, and wraps around my torso, and falls straight, just to my knees. 

Turning around to show off for Clay – and to admire him in his sand colored silk button-down shirt and dark slacks that hug him in all the right places. He stares at me the way I’m staring at him: hungrily. 

“No. No sex. I’m famished,” I warn. If we keep ogling one another, we’ll never get out of here. 

“Okay, okay,” Clay holds up his hands in surrender, and we leave the room before we end up in bed. 

Clay insists on driving, and I can tell he’s enjoying the high performance engine of the Peugeot, because he’s cornering faster than I was, and I thought I was being reckless in my admiration of the power and handling of the car. 

We end up in a really old part of town that has the tiniest streets, lined on both sides with cars parked all over the place, just as often parked illegally as legally. Amazingly, Clay finds a spot, which I’m sure he’ll never get into, but he completely floors me with his parallel parking skills. 

“Nice fit.” 

“Thanks, I like the way you fit me, too,” he says, turning the engine off, and turning to kiss me. A hand steadies my head at the back of my neck, and we kiss softly for a minute or two. 

“Let’s go eat,” he says when we break apart. 

The restaurant is in a cramped and odd little building that looks like it was squeezed in between the rest of the structures on the block. But it smells amazing, and is packed. 

The host obviously recognizes Clay, and he waves us over to him right away, showing us to a secluded table in the back. The food is amazing; rich and decadent, and, by the time we get to dessert, Clay and I are practically making love under the table. I’ve got a bare foot, which I slipped out of my sandals, in his crotch, where he’s swiveling his hips to increase the friction my toes are putting on his erection. Clay’s got one of his sock-clad feet up my dress, and his toes are busy with my clit, while I wriggle around as well. We take turns feeding each other the soufflé we’d ordered for dessert, and I take his index finger in my mouth, where I swirl my tongue over the pad of his finger, and graze it up and down with my teeth. 

“Mmmmmm,” Clay says, closing his eyes, and leaning his cock firmly against my foot, while in his distraction, his foot comes to a rest between my legs. 

“You ready to go?” I’m anxious to get out of here, and attack him. 

“Jesus, yes.” 

We put our shoes back on, Clay pays the bill, and we hurry to the car. Halfway there, there’s a loud “BOOM! WOOSH! BOOM!” 

I look up, to see the beginning of the Bastille Day fireworks exploding high overhead. 

“Almost forgot about that,” I tell Clay. 

“Me, too.” 

We keep our heads raised to the location of the pyrotechnics as we walk the rest of the short distance to the car. Once there, we lean against it, side by side, and continue to crane our necks up. Between sets of explosions, Clay pulls me in front of him, and I lean back against his body, my head on his shoulder, affording me a perfect headrest for the show in the sky. 

BOOM! BOOM! 

“Deja vu.” The smile in Clay’s voice is apparent to me without even seeing his face. 

“Yeah, happy belated anniversary,” I joke, referencing our first national holiday sex, on the Fourth of July last year. Clay’s arms tighten their hold around my waist, he lifts his right hand to my left breast, and palms the weight, massaging me with his hand and fingers. 

BOOM! WHISTLE! CRACK! 

“Mmmmm,” I comment. “I went to the fireworks show on the Mall, but it wasn’t the same without you.” 

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! 

“Actually, I was sleeping on the floor of a cave on the Fourth. Thinking about you.” He presses his semi-erect cock into my lower back, so I know exactly what he was thinking, and probably doing, in that cave. 

BANG! WHISTLE! BOOM! 

“Move in with me. Let’s get married.” 

BOOM! BOOM! 

Clay’s proposition catches me totally off guard. “Are you serious?” 

“Deadly.” 

I turn to face him, the fireworks forgotten for the moment. “I might be privy to your schedule if I did. And I might surprise you now and then.” 

BOOM! THRUST! BOOM! THRUST! 

“I hope you do.” 

“Okay,” I say, with an affirming smile. 

Clay reaches for my hips, pulls me onto him, and we kiss passionately. 

BOOM! BOOM! BANG! WHIRR! BOOM! CRACK! BANG! BOOM! 

I’m ecstatic; this is perfect. Our relationship isn’t based on anything overly sentimental or sappy, so any other kind of proposal would’ve been completely out of place. This is exactly what I love about Clay; his demeanor with me is so natural, and I think we’re incredibly comfortable with each other. Our whole relationship just feels really natural. 

We continue to kiss, ignoring the finale of the fireworks. Clay’s hands are massaging my rear, and I’m pressing my mound into the outline of his erection, which is straining in his slacks. 

“Can I take you up on that bed thing now?” I ask, breaking our kiss. 

“Thought you’d never ask.” 

The ride back to the hotel is harrowing; the holiday traffic is horrendous, and the way we’re teasing each other, with our hands reaching for every private part possible, isn’t exactly enhancing the safety of the situation. 

Finally back in the room, we slam the door, open it again to put the Do Not Disturb sign out, and then lock ourselves in for the night. Clothes fly in all directions, the bed covers get quickly disposed of, and we tumble to the sheet-covered mattress together with an, “Ooof.” 

Clay immediately rolls on top of me, and holds my hands above my head, while he uses his mouth to attack my body. His lips and teeth land on my neck, nibble down to my shoulder, then over to my breast, where he nips my nipple once, then catches it in his teeth and tugs sharply. I gasp in surprised pleasure, and he devours my nipple with his mouth, soothing me with his warm tongue. Clay moves down my body, releasing my hands to do so, but I leave them high over my head, relishing being at his mercy. 

He encircles his amazing hands around my lower ribcage as he kisses his way south. He raises himself onto his knees a bit to crawl down between my legs, and I spread myself out wide on the bed, again loving the way he’s practically worshiping my body. 

“I love the way you taste,” Clay says, with a lick to my hip. 

“I love the way you taste me,” I say, feeling playful. 

When he finally reaches the junction of my legs, I’m so ready to feel him there. I’m wet with anticipation and need. I close my eyes, and just let myself go when Clay plunges two fingers into me and starts tonguing my clit in a frenzy. I’m gasping and moving my hips frantically, wanting more, wanting him to never stop. Clay sucks on my clit and flicks his tongue across it, making me come long and hard. 

When I’ve come down from the high, Clay’s leaning over me, his head propped on his hand.   
“Looking awfully smug, there, aren’t you?” 

Clay leans over and kisses my forehead, which is beaded with sweat. And from his sweet gesture, I’m turned on all over again. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to get enough of this man. I shove his shoulder back, and pin it to the bed, as I get up to straddle him. His expression immediately shifts to darkly passionate, his eyelids hanging low, and his lips parted. 

I slowly sink down onto his shaft, and Clay’s eyes close all the way. I exhale, a heaving, ragged breath, and squeeze him hard with my inner muscles. Clay’s hands grip my hips, and he tries to lift me up while pressing his hips into the bed in an effort to start us thrusting. I resist for a second, and then relent; it’s really what I want, too. 

I drop my body to his, and rest on my forearms while I pump up and down. Clay cranes his neck up to kiss me; I meet him halfway. His tongue immediately snakes between my lips and finds mine. I lean farther over to press my chest to his, rubbing my breasts against his chest hair. I’m absolutely on fire from the inside out; from Clay’s hot tongue lapping at mine, to the hot friction his cock is creating as his shaft slides in and out of me. 

Our kisses are becoming more frenetic and hurried as we crescendo towards our release. The raw sexuality of his tongue and teeth as I kiss and lick is driving me wild. I can’t move my hips hard or fast enough; I want release. 

Clay’s fingertips dig into my hips, I feel his rhythm change slightly, and I know he’s just about there. I squeeze hard, and kiss him deeply, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. It sends him right over the edge, and as I feel his cock spasming inside me, my second orgasm hits fast. With moans, we ride out our pleasure, and collapse, muscles spent, bodies exhausted. 

“I love you,” Clay mumbles, his mouth buried in my hair. 

“I love you, too.” I hoist myself up and off the bed, and offer Clay my hand. We need to shower. 

In the shower, we laugh and talk lightly as we soap up and rinse off. Once we’re back in bed, I snuggle up to Clay, who raises his arm to encourage me to rest my head on his shoulder, and we talk for a while. 

“Does Rabb really think I’m a ‘weasley spook?’” 

I laugh, having forgotten that Harm had accused me of saying that about Clay. “I think so. But I’m sure he meant it in the nicest possible way.” 

“I’m sure,” Clay deadpans. 

“You know, weasels, like minks, are known for their reproductive athletics,” I say, pulling that obscure bit of trivia from somewhere in my brain. 

“Really? Well, I’ll look forward to demonstrating my weasel-like abilities for you at every opportunity.” 

“I’m counting on it.” 

“Hey, when we get back, do you want to start looking for a place?” 

“For us to rent?” 

“Or buy,” he suggests. 

“Yeah.” It’s starting to sink in that we’re going to move in together, and that we’re actually engaged. I’m really excited, and it just feels so “right.” 

“And I have a ring I want you to look at. It was my grandmother’s - but if it’s not your style, we can shop for one together.” 

I raise myself up to look at Clay, who turns his head to look at me. His expression is shy, and a little nervous, so I reach to brush his hair out of his forehead, and he traces my jaw-line with his index finger. We kiss tenderly, settle into the bed, and I’m asleep immediately, dreaming of house hunting with Clay.

END


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